


No Way Home

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 13:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14379960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: From the Archives on Section VII, Song Story Challenge





	No Way Home

“Gentlemen, I want you to take a minute to let the subject matter take root inside of you; let the inner man begin to assimilate what his younger self would like him to know and understand.  Take some time to reacquaint yourselves with … you.”

The blue-eyed blond with the small build sat with his arms folded in a manner that did much more than merely suggest isolation: _Do not approach._ It was almost as though he had a sign posted over his head.

The man sitting next to him was darker, with a come hither smile that seemed never to pause.  Even now, rather than grimace at the instructions he was hearing, his pleasant demeanor extended to the woman at the front of the room.  If he could just get her to accept him at face value … _that’s what everyone else did_.

The room was full of other Section II agents, all of them part of a new type of group therapy, headed up by one of their London office psychiatrists.  Laura Doone had conducted several of these ‘workshops’ for UNCLE Northeast, something that had stirred up a hornet’s nest of complaints in their aftermath.  Section II agents didn’t enjoy sitting on a shrink’s couch under the best of circumstances, never mind being shut up in a room full of other agents as they explored their ‘inner child’.

Kuryakin seemed especially agitated by this day’s activities.  Dr. Doone had zeroed in on the dour Russian early in the session, blithely ignorant of the man’s past and determined to jettison him into some type of Shangri-la present.  Her intentions were fraught with erroneous notions about the types of men who became UNCLE agents, or so it seemed to those in the room.

Napoleon Solo was doing his best to stay above the radar in this room.  If he could just stay happy looking instead of maintaining the glowering mistrust exhibited by his partner, he thought he might survive the day.  Illya wasn’t going to be so lucky, he feared.  
“Mr. Kuryakin, your body language is telling me that you don ‘t wish to participate in our little exercise.  I assure you, however, that should you not cooperate, I will have no recourse save to report to Mr. Waverly that your unwillingness suggests to me a lack of emotional wellness, and therefore …”  
Illya stood up at that point, his eyes an arctic blue against an increasingly flushed complexion.  Without a word he walked across the room and opened the door, exiting with as little flourish as possible amidst the gawking stares of everyone else assembled there.  
“Mr. Kuryakin!  Mr….”

Napoleon stood up and with a glance towards Dr. Doone, quieted her.  He proceeded to follow his partner out of the room, glad to be free of it but primarily concerned for Illya.  He knew that look, and it was only at his most distressed of moments that the Russian yielded to it.  
Napoleon found his friend in their office.  The smaller man must have run the distance in order to disappear from sight so quickly.  He stood in the doorway at first, to allow Illya an opportunity to fully compose himself.

 “Illya… is it going to be all right if I come in here?”

The question received a small nod in response.  Illya Kuryakin trusted two men in this life; one more than the other.  Beyond that, his world had been populated by manipulative, power hungry despots who would use anyone in their path for either promotion or protection.  Illya had been used for both by more than one man before coming to UNCLE.

“In my country, Napoleon, the citizens often go hungry for days.  I myself have been forced to go without decent food for weeks, receiving only meager amounts of watered down broth or boiled turnips that are mashed and served in place of meat.’

He leaned back on the leather sofa and then slid into a reclining position.

“I have no intention of going back and consulting with my younger self, no matter what Dr. Doone is threatening me with.  I have done all that I care to do regarding my past, there is nothing left for me there.”

Illya closed his eyes, and Napoleon saw now that the other man looked gaunt, his features slightly drawn in the dim lighting.  Was it an illusion or was his partner really that thin?

“I know your life has had a fair share of turmoil, Illya.  I’m not sure how you’re going to avoid following through with this program, though.  Section I has approved it, and now expects all of us to cooperate with its facilitators.  It’s supposed to help us be better agents, both in the field and off.’

Illya was glaring at Napoleon now, unbelieving that his friend should raise the expectation of completing this excruciating exercise.

“Are you certain that you can’t go back and … I don’t know, maybe just go along with her.  If you can’t actually bear to revisit your past, at least make her think that you are.  I don’t know if they’ll certify you if you don’t complete this regimen of psych evaluations and the workshops.”

Illya shook his head, he felt a headache coming on and he was uncharacteristically disturbed.  He should be able to do this, but …  
In a voice barely above a whisper, Illya tried to reply to his friend.

“I do not think I can.  I am sorry.”

Napoleon sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion, thoroughly perplexed and marginally concerned.  He was aware of Illya watching him, the blue eyes clouded over now by a furrowed brow that spoke loudly of the conflict behind them.

“Illya, maybe … just hear me out.  Maybe this session is what you need.’

The Russian bolted up at that.  How could Napoleon endorse what he so vehemently rejected?

“Are you prepared to carry whatever this … wound is, for the rest of your life?  Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to let it go?”

It was a daring move on Napoleon’s part, and he realized the possibility that his friend might just walk out of the room and not return.  Illya’s past was as closely guarded as the gold in Fort Knox, perhaps more so.  His files were incomplete and his willingness to share what kind of life he had lived in the Soviet Union was limited to vague references and veiled innuendo about the hardships.

Looking at Illya it was not difficult to see the youth who had battled Soviet schoolmasters while proving to be too valuable to be thrown out.  He was still playing the part of a student at times, and in spite of the obvious fact that he was a grown man, Napoleon wondered if that young Illya still owned the man.  Perhaps that was why he was resisting this exercise; maybe Illya didn’t want to lose who he had been, and feared that by exposing him now he might disappear completely.

“Stay here, Illya.  I’ll be back.”

Illya laid his head back on the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.  Mercifully free now, he decided that his friend had decided to side with him and make his case.  He went to sleep with an image of the streets of Kiev.

When Napoleon returned to the room in which Dr. Doone was holding her session, all eyes turned to the CEA.  Most of the men were hoping that he had managed to have this entire day cancelled, such was their dread of continuing.  When he merely sat back down in his seat there was a collective, silent sigh of resignation.

Dr. Doone waited for an explanation from the handsome agent, her attraction to him not enough to shift her determination to continue.

“Mr. Solo, where is Mr. Kuryakin?”

“He is resting, in his office.  He has an old injury that … um, causes migraines and … he’s taken something and is sleeping it off.”

“Migraine?  Really, Mr. Solo, is that the best you can do?”

This got everyone’s attention.  Napoleon blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Doone tapped her nails against the desktop.

“Well, I mean … a migraine.  Mr. Kuryakin needs to return to this session and complete the exercise as outlined in the …”

Napoleon stood up, causing Dr. Doone to stop in mid-sentence.

“Have you ever been out in the field on assignment, doctor?  I mean, do you actually know what it is we do, those of us in Section II?”

Doone pursed her lips, measuring her response.

“I am not an operative, Mr. Solo, I am a psychiatrist.  And as such, it is my job to help all of you …’  She extended her arm in a gesture encompassing the room.  “… to be fit mentally and emotionally.  These exercises have been designed to do that.  They will help all of you to better understand yourselves, your enemy and therefore, your job.”

A low rumble went through the room as every man began to mumble his discontent and disagreement with the woman’s rhetoric.  A blond man, Gerald Brothers, stood up.

“Excuse me, but do you mean to tell me that you believe you can give us a better understanding of THRUSH?  I think we’re pretty well acquainted with those bastards.  Would you like to see my scars?”

Dr. Doone jerked back as though she’d been shot.

“That’s what I’m talking about.  You men measure your job based on your hatred of the other combatants.  What we need is for you to be more thoroughly acquainted with your own psyche, and therefore able to gauge your actions ahead of time.  Why…”

Another agent stood up, David Smythe.  He was red-faced and barely able to contain his anger.

“What my _psyche_ is telling me is that you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’ve got a bunch of gibberish that is supposed to make sense and all it is doing is making us feel as though we’ve not done our jobs.  THRUSH is the enemy, we’re the good guys.  What else do we need to know?”

At that moment the door opened and through it walked Illya Kuryakin.  He looked around a bit sheepishly at his fellow agents, then to the woman in the front of the room.  She didn’t get up from her desk but rather appeared to be gloating slightly at the sight of the man.

“So, Mr. Kuryakin, have you decided to rejoin the group?”

Napoleon was surprised at his partner’s return, and the other men in the room were all waiting for him to speak.  A mutiny was not far from anyone’s mind.

“I have merely returned to apologize for leaving in the manner in which I did.  It was … rude.’

Illya looked around at the faces of his comrades, the men who, like him, risked his life without questions and routinely saved the world from one disaster or another.

“However, I find the prospect of sharing with you, or anyone for that matter, the life that I left behind … unacceptable.  Overcoming that life is what made me able to be an agent for the U.N.C.L.E., and I have no intention of revisiting it.  Not today, not ever.”

Illya looked around the room once more, turned around and walked out the door.  Gerald Brothers stood up and headed towards the door, followed by several others.  Soon all of the men had risen from their seats, some feigning a salute as they left.  When only Napoleon was left, Dr. Doone cocked her head to one side and searched for something to say.

“You see, doctor, these men know who they are.  They’re UNCLE agents.  Brave, dependable and beyond a doubt the best the world has to offer.  Think of us as guardian angels … for the entire world.  We don’t need to find our inner child to know our job.  We need to be the _best men_ we can be.”

And then Napoleon got up and left Dr. Doone alone in the room to consider her own inner child, and the concept of guardian angels.  
Napoleon found his partner again, back in his office.  Illya was sitting on the end of the sofa, waiting.  Mr. Waverly would eventually hear of this, and then… He sighed as he considered what might happen next.

“Hey tovarisch, you feel like going out for a drink?  It’s been a long day and we don’t have anything else planned.”

Illya was taken aback a little at the invitation.  He had expected a reproof.

“Are you not going to report all of this to Mr. Waverly?  I do not expect you to offer me special treatment, Napoleon.”

The smile was not duplicitous.  The drinks invitation must be real.

“I will report to Mr. Waverly.  I will report that I think this entire business of what we just endured is a load of … well, I’ll phrase it in a way that will be convincing.  You should have seen the guys, Illya, they all got up and walked out after you left.”

Illya was completely surprised by that.

“Really?  Everyone?  Well, that is a pleasant development.’  He rose from the sofa, smiling at the turn of events.  
“Very well, I can use a drink.  Perhaps more than one.”

“Yeah, me too, tovarisch.”

“Napoleon… about what you said.”

A quizzical look crossed Napoleon’s face as he tried to recall what Illya might be referring to.

“About letting it go’

Ah, a look of recognition.

“I have let it go, it’s just that …”

Napoleon was shaking his head, forming the words.

“No, no it’s … What’s past is past, Illya.  Yours, mine … all of us.  What counts now is where we are, what we do.  I told the good doctor in there that we’re like guardian angels for the world, we arrive and things get better.  Or, at least that’s the plan.  Who we used to be … it doesn’t matter.  Today.  It’s all about today.”

Illya nodded, grateful to have a friend like Napoleon.  Today.

“We’ll drink to that, then.  Today.”

They did drink to that, and to letting the past rest where it lay.  



End file.
